Bored Games
by Cashwin
Summary: Deprived of his phone, TV and the Internet, Sherlock is bored. In order to stop his flatmate from destroying the house in frustration, John suggests they play a game of Snakes and Ladders.
1. Blackout

Erm, this was meant to be a random one-shot, but the story got a bit longer than I intended, and the POV shifts slightly, so I've chopped it in half for convenience. Hope it's alright. Second part is on its way :)

Disclaimer: I don't own anything to do with _Sherlock_ - thankfully, proper grown-ups at the BBC do.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is on the run.

He's vaguely aware it might have been quicker to stay in the taxi, but the driver really hadn't understood the urgency of the situation; despite Sherlock's persistent demands, the cabbie had flatly refused to break London's speed limits just to get to Baker Street before his passenger's phone ran out of charge.

_Apparently_, saving Sherlock's dying phone wasn't a good enough reason to commit a criminal offence.

And given that this particular cab had then _crawled_, rather than _zoomed_, all the way from St Bart's to Marylebone Road, the detective had been forced to conclude that if he wanted to get home at all today, he'd have to – to use a local phrase – _leg it._

So now he careers past closing shop fronts and hurtles round the corner of Baker Street, coat flapping in the cold night air and hitting several disgruntled pedestrians along the way. Speeding up, he desperately fumbles in his pocket for his mobile, as though the warmth of his hand will somehow extend its rapidly dwindling life.

He darts up the steps to the familiar black door, scrabbles for a few seconds with the key in the lock, and thunders up the darkened staircase to the flat.

When he stops.

'Oh.'

The room is _glimmering_.

Flickering orange light dances across the walls, pirouettes across the mantelpiece, skates across the closed curtains – an effect created by the plethora of candles and tealights crammed onto every conceivable flat surface. Little flames twinkle merrily, giving the impression that someone has turned the living room into a kind of bizarre, fanatical shrine. Shadows curl around the bookcase, creep across the threadbare rug on the floor, and Sherlock himself creates a long, imposing silhouette that stretches into the furthest corner of the room.

It is, he thinks for a split second, rather beautiful.

A startled yelp, followed by barrage of curses coming from the direction of the kitchen, drags him sharply back to reality.

'John, I appreciate the gesture, but you should know Bunsen burners are more my thing…' he calls, as he swiftly removes his coat, followed by the scarf, and approaches the kitchen. The doctor is running his hand under the cold tap and turns to give his friend a dirty look.

'Funny.' He finishes cooling his burnt fingers and grabs a tea towel. 'And what the hell have you been doing with the gas hob? It nearly scorched my fingers off.'

'Oh, just… flammables,' Sherlock answers casually, and then, 'Power cut?'

'Yes,' says John, eyeing him warily and making a mental note of this suspiciously fast topic change. 'Cut out about an hour ago. Mrs Hudson came up earlier to give me some candles.' He surveys the living room doubtfully. 'I told her we had torches, but she, ah, wouldn't take no for an answer.'

Sherlock snorts and seizes a thick, sturdy candle that has been squatting on his desk. It sits in a rather tacky gold holder and an ugly rose design has been stamped haphazardly into the dark crimson wax. The manufacturers clearly intended for it to create an enticing, suggestive aroma, but it actually fills the room with the fuggy stench of decaying bananas. He blows on it viciously, but the flame resists. Then it sees his Look and surrenders.

John chuckles, despite his throbbing fingers. 'It's awful, isn't it? She told me she used to burn it to get her husband "in the mood."'

There is a pause as both men choose not to think about this.

'Anyway,' he continues hastily, 'the fuse in the microwave blew, and judging by how hazy our landlady was with the details, I reckon the wiring in this house isn't up to legal standards...' He unconsciously scratches the back of his head. A sure sign of stress. 'Electrician's coming later to fix the circuits.'

'A blown fuse? _Interesting_.' There's a gleam in Sherlock's eyes as he mutters to himself. 'The bile must've leaked somehow…'

'Wait, this had something to do with _you_?'

'Well it obviously wasn't the result I was expecting, but it can't be helped now,' Sherlock snaps whilst fishing out his deceased phone. 'We'll just have to wait for the power to come back on. So much for charging this thing up – I was waiting on information.' He tosses the phone unceremoniously onto the sofa.

For a moment, John is stunned rather than furious. Sherlock? With no Internet, phone or microwave? He's actually taking this rather well. Then –

'I'll use your phone,' says the detective, holding out his hand expectantly. 'It's slow, but it'll keep me occupied and Lestrade knows the number.'

John doesn't move. 'You can't.'

Another pause, but a chilly one this time. Sherlock tuts impatiently. 'Oh, look, if it's about me giving your number to a serial killer, then –'

'No,' John replies coolly, raising his eyebrows in defiance. 'I left it at Sarah's.'

'_What?_' It takes Sherlock a couple of seconds to process such a preposterous revelation and his voice almost rises an octave with horror. '_Why?_'

'It wasn't intentional, I just had more… important… things to think about.'

'What's more important than my _sanity_?' cries the taller man, clutching at his hair in agitation.

'Quite a few things actually. Do you want a list?'

'Well how will I – what am I supposed to – but I can't – _aarghnmmm_!' The detective lets out an anguished cry and hurls himself onto the sofa, face down, with a loud _whumph_.

John looks on with amusement as he eases himself into an armchair. 'Try coping like the rest of us. Do some reading. There's a book about the Solar System somewh –' he stops abruptly at the sight of his flatmate's half-turned face. Its withering expression could destroy entire civilisations, or at the very least, the forensics squad at Scotland Yard.

'Do you think that _reading_ –' the escalating disgust in Sherlock's voice muffled by the cushion he's just fallen on – 'will switch off _this_?' He prods his temple with a long finger, and then rapidly swings himself into a sitting position, elbows on knees, fingers twisting together. 'I need _information_. I need to be _solving_. I need to be _experimenting. _I -' He sniffs. 'Can you smell that?'

'It's Mrs Hudson's cand–'

'No, no…' he murmurs, leaping up and heading for the kitchen. 'It's like… argh, it's like…'

John leans around his chair just in time to see the man emit a strangled howl.

'My earwax mosaic! You used it as a _candle_!'

It's going to be a long night.

* * *

_CRACK._

Sherlock manages to count for three seconds before he hears the sound of running feet and sees the glowing outline of his horrified flatmate lurch through the living room doorway.

'Oh, for God's – Sherlock, in a room full of _candles_?'

The blasted remains of the fire alarm cling to the ceiling for dear life. There's a feeble '…_bleep_.'

'It wouldn't stop _beeping_ at me.'

'So you _shot_ it?'

The accused is sprawled across the sofa, gun in hand, every word costing him unnecessary effort. 'I tried yelling at it first. Didn't work.'

John shakes his head with incredulity and hurriedly extinguishes some of the tealights. 'Fire alarms save lives, you know.'

'Ohhh…' Sherlock groans in exasperation as he slides the gun across the floor. 'Don't be such a _doctor_.' But his eyes fix curiously on the thin, square box in his friend's hands. 'What's that?'

Clearly pleased to have distracted the man from blowing them into oblivion, John replies in earnest. 'It was in my room when I moved in. Must be Mrs Hudson's.' He walks across the room and places the box on the desk, shifting aside the candles. 'Snakes and ladders.'

'They all fit in that box?'

'No – what?' John gives a baffled grin. 'You've never heard of the game snakes and ladders?'

'Hm… ' The detective frowns whilst throwing the idea around in his head and sifting through the intense mishmash of information in his mental database. Speckled snakes and green ladders spring to mind… but no games. He turns his head with interest. 'Does it involve death?'

'No-o…'

'Urgh.' His head snaps back to face the ceiling. 'Dull.'

'Actually, we used to play it out in Afghanistan,' says John quietly. 'Not quite so dull when there's a possibility it'll be your last game.'

The shadow of a smile flitters over Sherlock's face – funny how the thrill of being only inches away from death is sometimes one of the only things worth living for. If John understands that too, then they've got more in common than he'd like to admit. Now is not the time to be too trusting, however. He raises a quizzical eyebrow. 'If it's game, how do you win?'

'If you play, I'll tell you.'


	2. 99 problems

'_BO-O-ORED_.' This childish whine sounds peculiar coming from a fully-grown man, but John knows it well and keeps calm. Well, relatively.

'We haven't started yet. Pick a colour.'

Sherlock is perched on the top of the opposite armchair, toes curled like fingers around the careworn Union Jack cushion; the warm glow of firelight illuminating his face, along with the pitch-black shadows lurking under his cheekbones, gives the John the impression he's negotiating with a haughty, fiery skeleton.

'Oh, I don't know. Red. Yellow. Pink. Rainbows with sparkly unicorns.'

'Red it is. I'll be blue,' John replies, tightly. 'Just…' he breathes in deeply, '…go on and roll the dice.'

'_Die_. Singular.' Sherlock rolls his eyes in annoyance. 'You do know that this is just a game of luck?'

'Yes.' The doctor can't help but smile. 'Which is why I might actually win.'

* * *

'HAH!'

John groans as he slides his counter, for what must be the fourth time, down the longest snake of the board.

Square number 98 is a bastard.

His opponent cackles gleefully, snatching the die.

John takes his uninjured hand and drags it slowly down his face in haggard disbelief. He's never known a game go on for so long before. Even worse, he can see that the candles are beginning to burn low and the idea of asking Mrs Hudson for more doesn't really appeal.

'Four! One… two… three…'

'I thought you found this boring,' he grumbles, staggering across the room to retrieve the die from wherever Sherlock has exuberantly – and literally – thrown it.

'Ahh, winning is never boring.' The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch. 'Not against _you_, anyway.'

'I suppose I should feel flattered.'

'You just really want to beat me.'

'Wha – no, I don't!'

'Alright.'

'Well then.'

'Well.' The two men struggle to keep straight faces as they resume play, silence only broken by the occasional snigger or clatter of the die.

It's odd, muses John, to see the detective as happy as this, given the absence of any dead bodies, mass murderers or aggrieved Andersons. It's like watching his inner child – admittedly it's a whiny, bratty, competitive inner child, but it's better than the pyromaniac kid who throws flammable liquid over the cooker.

And the fact that he had no concept of a simple board game… what on earth was his childhood like? True, not every child is bullied into playing with their bossy, obnoxious sister, but he must have passed the long summer holidays somehow. John suddenly has a disturbing thought.

'Did you ever play games when you were younger? With Mycroft?'

'Did you 'get off' with Sarah today?'

John keeps his face carefully blank as he stares at Sherlock's similarly impassive visage. He gives in.

'Fine. You don't want to talk about it.'

'No. Oh, excellent, another ladder.'

* * *

'… three, four, _five_. Ninety-nine!' The doctor shifts his counter along the board with renewed enthusiasm. 'No more snakes!' And he only needs a one to win.

God, he's actually going to beat Sherlock Holmes.

He'll have to take Sarah out to celebrate.

The detective huffs and rolls a three. He's long since dismounted from his aloof position atop the armchair and is bent keenly over the board, hands together in prayer position with the fingertips lightly brushing his chin.

'Hello-oo?'

So engrossed are they in the game, it takes John a while to register that there's someone at the door. 'Argh! Mrs Hudson!'

'Oh, I'm _so_ sorry, boys…' Their flustered landlady is backing out of the doorway, 'I hope I wasn't interrupting any –'

'No! No, no, ahah, not at all.' John forces a laugh, heaves himself out of his seat and walks over to his landlady, somewhat stiffly. Sherlock doesn't even flinch. 'What's happened?'

'The electric man's come,' she reports, whilst curiously peering around him to discover the object of their attention. 'He's saying all sorts of nonsense, I really can't understand him. Could one of you come? Actually –' she lowers her voice and John has to lean forwards to hear her ' –I think _you'd_ better come. Sherlock, bless him, is a bit –' she half-mouths the next word ' –_funny_ around workmen. The plumber just refuses to turn up any more and it's awful because my tap never stops dripping –'

'Er, yes, of course.' John leans back into the room. 'I'll be five minutes, Sherlock. Try not to blow anything up.'

The answer comes as a sneer. 'I'll do my best.'

'Hurry up, dear, he keeps asking for a cup of tea, but of course the kettle's not working, is it…'

* * *

John isn't entirely surprised to hear Sherlock already tapping away on the laptop as he trudges to the top of the stairs.

'You've deduced that the power's back on then?'

Didn't bother to put out the remaining candles though, he adds mentally; the smell of smoke is so prominent now that if the fire alarm were still here, it'd be having seizures.

'Got to go, Lestrade's left _ten_ messages over the past hour – something's happened!' says his companion ecstatically, leaping off his seat and fetching his scarf. 'Coming?'

'Yeah, well, we can at least finish the game first. I was about to win!'

'Oh. Were you?'

'Yes! You know I was! Look, it's right –' Where John points, there is a conspicuously empty patch on the desk about the size of a 30cm x 30cm square, or, say, a board game. 'Where's –where's the game?' His voice is light, but there's a warning tone in there.

'Game?' Sherlock's brow wrinkles as he shrugs on his coat. 'I don't think I remember –'

'_Sherlock_.'

'Oh I _see_,' he says, strolling towards the door, voice dripping with sarcasm. '_That_ game. See if you can figure it out.'

'This isn't the time for –' John stops. _Smoke_. 'You didn't…'

'Didn't what?'

'You –you –oh, I can't believe this, that is so –' Fuming, he storms into the kitchen and returns with a smouldering mess of cardboard - sad-looking wiggles of colour are barely visible through the blackened mush. 'Yes, very _clever_, very _mature_, Sherlock!'

'We were running out of candles.'

'Couldn't even bear the thought of losing for one _second_, could you?'

'As charming as this has been, I'm off to play a _real_ game now, John. Are you coming or not?' says Sherlock, shrugging on his coat and turning for the stairs.

'We had more than enough candles!' John roars after the wretched man, who jumps the last three steps and whirls around to shout up at his flatmate.

'Earwax mosaic, John!'

It's all the doctor can do not to bash his own brains out on the banister in frustration. Or Sherlock's, for that matter.

'Oh, and _by the way_…' The detective continues, pausing in the front doorway and yanking on his gloves. 'Your mobile phone… the one you _left at Sarah's_…'

'Yes?'

'Just a reminder that it's locked up in the top left-hand drawer of your desk, underneath the matches – you might want to bring it.' He winks before bounding down the front steps, onto the street below. 'Do try harder next time!'

It's like their first meeting all over again.

'And you let me –how long have you kno –oh, you know what, never mind.' John grabs his jacket and sighs.

If life is a board game, Sherlock will always be one bloody square ahead.

* * *

AN: Eek! Thanks for all your lovely reviews, guys! Sorry if I didn't get to reply to them all – I was a bit busy over the weekend... hope this part was okay?

(Also, just noticed there's another fic with this title. Ohnoes! Bit embarassing. Go read it if you haven't yet though - it's very good :) Funnily enough, the idea to continue this with a Cluedo-based chapter (with Sherlock and Lestrade) came to me halfway through writing, so I suppose I can't really do that now. Darn, beaten to it! XD )


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